


the effect of consequential strangers

by posiereligion



Category: Legacies (TV 2018)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Social Anxiety, posie - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17887829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posiereligion/pseuds/posiereligion
Summary: Josie asks an unfamiliar girl to give her a lift. She thinks: a few hours of the road and they will never see each other again. But a lot can happen in a few hours.





	the effect of consequential strangers

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: mentioning of selfharm, suicidal attempt, panic attacks.
> 
> please stay strong. and if you ever need to talk then i'm here for you. you are appreciated.

The music at the party is loud, rhythmic, with shrill transitions. The murmuring of the bass is muffled in the chest. In the twilight highlighted by colored garlands soar puffs of smoke, smells of female perfumes, scented cigarettes and then. All the corridors and rooms are packed with people; guests lie on the couches, stand and talk, laugh, dance. Twilight hides features, smoothes differences, levels out and here, without faces and without names, everything is already alike, the concept of “personal space” no longer exists.

That's enough. Josie jumps up... There is so much around her that nausea rolls up to the throat. She continually bites her lips because of the exhausting anxiety: hard, painful, to the blood. It seems that the same song has been playing in columns for ages, and the monotonous rhythm blurs the line between sleep and reality. It happens with Josie sometimes; pain in the tired head pulsates, and the brain drags her into Wonderland. Thoughts pile up and pile up like cigarette butts in a crowded ashtray.

It's a bad idea to come to this party, but Josie, apparently, has no other.

She walks down the corridor, makes her way to the exit, and someone accidentally touches her several times on the way: by the arm, by the back, by the forearm. And every unwanted touch burns like a reddish skin.

Josie gropes her phone, dials Lizzie's number. She does not respond. Josie came to the party by he car and now she seems to have lost her last chance to get back home. She is far from the city. She doesn't know anyone else here.

Too much emotion weaves into a loop, and it stifles, draws into the whirlpool of endless, exhausting anxiety.

It turns out that only a couple of hours have passed since the beginning of the party, and the day is just coming to an end. The sunset sky is shimmering, slowly becoming mauve, like pudding, like nail polish. Josie looks at it, standing on the porch of someone else's house, and it is difficult for her to breathe. Just for a moment, she unbearably wants to cry.

*

 

Nearby cars are randomly parked on an improvised parking. Josie comes closer, passes between the first two, turning sideways, rising on tiptoes not to touch the dusty sides of the cars with the back pocket of jeans. She seems to fall into the maze of bumpers and car doors. The beige van doesn’t have the headlights turned off and a music plays from an old Ford beside it. Josie catches the blurry reflection in the windows and rear-view mirrors: the face is not visible, and you can only recognize yourself by the clothes. No one around, everyone somehow left the car, rushing off to a party.

Ahead, on the very road, Josie notices soft, translucent puffs of cigarette smoke in the air, rising towards the sky. Some girl smokes, leaning against the hood of an old van.

Josie mentally pushes her own fear aside and goes forward.

“Hey,” she says, clutching the hands hidden behind her back to the whitish knuckles. “Hello.”

The girl raises her head.

She has an open, smirking face, tenacious gaze. Her hoodie is emblazoned with the logo of a weird raven that Josie had never seen before. For some reason, she thinks that the girl's wavy hair looks very cool; the sun shines on her in the back, and the rays before sunset shade the hair color, make it brighter, and because of this it looks like a shining halo overhead.

The light of a cigarette sandwiched between her fingers flashes like a beacon.

At least this girl does not look like a serial killer.

“You don't look like a serial killer,” Josie says, unable to stop herself.

She immediately bites her lip, and a hot wave of embarrassment passes somewhere inside, burning the walls of the abdomen, but the girl just chuckles in response.

“Thanks, honey,” she says sincerely. “This is the best thing I've been told today,” she takes a puff, giving Josie a look of appreciation. “I'm Penelope.”

“Josie,” she nervously shifts from foot to foot. “Listen, is this your van? Could you give me a ride to the city? My sister who brought me here stayed somewhere at the party, I can't reach her.”

Penelope raises an eyebrow and Josie reads a dozen pertinent and predictable questions straight from her face. Why are you leaving so early? Why don't you go back and look for your sister as you should? Why are you avoiding an eye contact with such diligence, why do you look so scared, why are you constantly chew your lower lip with your teeth, you are already bleeding, stop, stop.

Josie waits fatefully. Anxiety seals the throat like a blood clot.

Penelope, without taking the eyes off her, quickly takes another puff: whitish smoke seeps through her lips, finally touching the face. Then she throws a cigarette on the road, pressing the cigarette butt with her foot.

“I need to make a call,” Penelope says, taking the phone from her back jeans pocket. “And we'll go after that. Give me a minute.”

For the first time of the night, Josie feels a faint desire to smile.

 

*

She sits in the van and furtively watches Penelope through a hazy windshield. Words are hard to make out, but during a conversation, she actively gesticulates, as if her hands dance in the air, Penelope now and then runs the fingers through her hair. Words are hard to make out, but, already ending the conversation, she smiles for a second; sad and warm, and Josie forces herself to turn away. She suddenly becomes ashamed, as if she saw something very personal, not intended for others' eyes.

In these parts, it gets dark very quickly, and now outside the window thickened twilight covers the forest plantation and bumpy roadway. There is not a single lamp nearby, and because of this it seems that darkness slowly surrounds the car from all sides. Spruce fluffy paws lazily sway in the wind.

Penelope opens the door, bringing with her the bitter smell of cigarette smoke.

“Buckle up”, Penelope says, rolling up her hoodie sleeves.

Josie hurriedly reaches for the seat belt.

“Yes, sorry.”

She doesn't hear it for the first time. Lizzie constantly reminds her of this. Her dad constantly reminds her of this. Josie systematically forgets to buckle up and it means something, but she is not ready to face it yet.

Penelope turns the key in the ignition with a running motion, and the van comes to life. Yellow headlights snatch from the darkness of the road and Josie squints; her eyes had already become accustomed to the twilight. Something clicks in the engine, her monotonous muttering drowns out music from the party, wind noise, all other sounds, and for a moment it seems that the world behind the doors of the car no longer exists, as if she and Penelope were completely alone.

This thought reassures.

She closes her eyes.

*

The wagon rushes through the night, jumps on the bumps. Josie mentally curses the officials, who can not repair the road for several years in a row.  
Through closed eyelids, she feels someone's shadow, the barely perceptible heat of someone else's movement, and alerts, opening her eyes. Penelope reaches for the dashboard, throws a pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment and slams the lid.

“So you smoke?” Suddenly for some reason asks Josie.

She still feels the faint smell of smoke soaring in the cabin.

Penelope glances at her and smiles guiltily in response.

“Not always. Only when I am nervous”, she looks at the road too intently, squeezes the steering wheel too tenaciously. “Sometimes, if there are a lot of people around, it happens to me... it's bad, it becomes difficult to breathe, and thoughts get confused,” she frowns, then grins sadly. “That’s why I don’t really like parties.”

Josie nods. She is a little confused, puzzled, fascinated. Penelope does it so easily. She tells a complete stranger about her problems openly, without embarrassment, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. Josie herself is never like this. She hates her anxiety, forgives herself, tries to love; everything is very difficult, confusing and painful.

She wants to thank her for the sincerity. She wants to ask why Penelope trusts her so much, why she chose cigarettes from all possible ways to cope with anxiety. But Josie is silent. Being honest with somebody only makes sense, if you are ready for a response gesture yourself.

She already opens her mouth to say something in return — at least something — but Penelope is ahead of her.

“And also...” Penelope grins nervously, as if trying to distract herself. “This... it will sound terrible if I try to explain. I know that smoking is harmful, but sometimes... Sometimes this thought reassures. Sometimes I want to punish myself a little. And nobody will pay attention to cigarettes, unlike...“ She pauses.

Josie lowers her gaze to the kneeling hands, compressed into a lock.

She understands this, but only partly. She doesn't smoke. Doesn't get drunk. Doesn't chew pencils or pens. Doesn't squeeze the buttons on the joysticks, even desperately chopping with Lizzie in Mario Kart. She prefers to direct all destruction on herself and so that the consequences are immediately visible.

There is a dried crust on her lips, cracks, as on lime exhausted by time. There are white stripes of scars on the sleeve of her hidden shirt. This is usually not shown immediately after a meeting. People don't talk usually about this.

Josie had no one to share this for a very, very long time, and now she wants to say a lot, but cannot find the right words.

Penelope interprets the prolonged silence in her own way.

“Oh, God,” she says hastily. “Sorry. I don’t know why I... I didn’t want to put this all on you.”

Josie has to intervene. She pulls up the sleeve of her shirt, exposing her wrist, revealing the look of three hard stationery rubber bands, worn in the style of bracelets. The skin beneath them is reddened, hot to the touch.

“Do you know what this is?” Loudly, with pressure asks Josie, interrupting Penelope.

Penelope blinks. She nods.

“Okay,” Josie says and turns her foggy look to the road. “You probably... you probably shouldn’t be proud of it, but you don’t need to be ashamed of it either,” a million relevant phrases spin in the head like a swarm of bees, and Josie still cannot choose any. Therefore, she stops at the simplest and most honest formulation, “You are not alone.”

She does not look at Penelope, but almost feels like she exhales calmly.

“Oh,” she says. “Wow.”

Josie shakes her head, feeling inappropriate outburst of embarrassment. She pulls the sleeves of the shirt down so that they cover the palms and crumples the cuff with her fingers.

“I don’t even know why I suddenly blurted everything out to you,” Penelope confesses. “Spilling my soul to the first comer is not my style at all.”

“The effect of consequential strangers,” Josie says, reassuring. “While we are driving, we have time, and then we will probably never see each other again. This is, like, relaxing”, she pauses, biting her lip. ”And for the record, I don't mind listening.”

She looks up uncertainly. Penelope smiles, looking straight ahead, but Josie knows that this bright and open smile is for her. The chest secretly expands, growing a delight.

“I don't mind listening, either,” says Penelope. “For the record.”

“Okay,” Josie says seriously. “I will consider it.”

She turns to the window, watching the uneven palisade of trees sliding along the road. Curved woody branches stretch towards the sky, towards the white slice of the moon in the middle of the inkspot. The wagon rushes through the night, jumping on the potholes.

Josie and Penelope are silent.

Penelope can't take it first.

“Sorry,” she says, shrugging. “I would turn on the radio, but a couple of days ago someone snitched my tape recorder.”

Josie looks at the empty place on the dashboard and briefly smiles.

“It's alright, my sister wasn't lucky last month, too. Welcome to Mystic Falls, only we have the serial captors of the tape recorders.”

Penelope chuckles.

“Good old Mystic Falls doesn't change with time at all. And I was just about to miss it." She notices Josie’s questioning look and explains, “I’m from here, but moved a year ago. Because of studying. I mean, at first I went to LA for my band, but in the end we didn’t grow together, and I stayed there to study.”

“Wow,” Josie says muffled. “Your life is rich,” she is happy for Penelope and a little jealous of her. “What can you play?”

“The guitar, piano, ukulele, saxophone, and bass.”

Josie furtively looks at her hands.

“Cool. I sing. Kinda.”

“Listen,” Penelope says excitedly. “We gotta create a band.”

In the silence, they meet each other's gazes and snort derisively.

“The best idea.”

“You can sing and I can play instruments. Several! Who else do we need?”

“Let's record a platinum album, sell out all the tickets for the show at Madison Square Garden.”

“Lead the lines of all the charts and win an MTV award.”

Josie smiles. She thinks about notebooks, written with poems, ideas, future lyrics, which lie in a box under her bed. She thinks of an old microphone; she has no money for the new one. She thinks about how great it would be to share it all with someone else.

“Actually, I really want to make music in the future,” Josie says carefully, as if trying to taste this thought. “I went to college for this.”  
Penelope looks interested.

“Studying music?”

“Yes. But learning still doesn’t compare with..”, Josie thoughtfully chews her lip with the teeth, and she starts to bleed slightly again. "With the very process of creativity. I mean, I don't want to hear about how to make music, I just want to create it. If I had a good opportunity and was offered to go on a tour, I would have quit college. Without any hesitation.”

“I see,” Penelope nods, smiling. “Me too, girl. I would like to play instruments for the rest of my life, and college is more for myself.”

“What do you study?”

“Philosophy”

Josie stays silent in surprise, forgetting to close her mouth. Penelope notices her expression and laughs fuzzily.

“Are you kidding?”

“No, honey,” when Penelope smiles, her eyes sparkle and her whole face seems to be radiant. “Don't worry, everyone usually reacts to this news like that.”

Josie smiles a little.

Now that Penelope looks so cheerful and carefree, it's hard to imagine that this person can also have serious problems. It is difficult to imagine that she can have panic attacks. It is so easy to allow yourself to be distracted by the first impression and not to notice all the depth, all the contradictions of human life. So easy to devalue everything.

But Josie clings to the glove compartment, in which lie the cigarettes, and reminds herself, again and again: this person is more interesting, more complicated, more multi-layered than it actually seems. If you take a closer look, Penelope really looks tired, even when she smiles. Dark shadows under the eyes on the background of a pale face; It is a little hard to look at this Penelope, but Josie still does. She also needs to remind herself that she is not alone sometimes. She looks at Penelope, fascinated, as she would have looked at a train wreck, but this is different, this is different, and everything inside her melts.

“So why philosophy?” She asks to distract herself.

“Musicians are often underestimated.”

“Hmm?”

“Did you notice that vocalists usually get all the most interesting questions on the interview? And I... I just wanna be someone more significant than just the girl who knocks all the crap out of some instrument set somewhere in the distance of the scene. I want to help my band. Maybe writing texts, maybe just speaking smoothly in an interview”, Penelope stops talking, licking her lips, and Josie eagerly catches her eyes with a wet glimpse of the tongue. “Does that sound stupid?”

“No,” Josie breathes, without thinking.

Penelope doesn't look at her, but the corners of her mouth are slightly startled.

“Well, and I also wanna learn how to look at life differently.”

“And how,” asks Josie. “Does it work? What do great thinkers say about stolen tape recorders?”

She expects Penelope to laugh, brush her off, not answer, but she is surprised again.

“We have to receive any experience,” Penelope shrugs. “Radio is just an information noise. Even Pascal criticized the man’s foolish desire to distract himself, to escape from himself. Like, when you are alone and you have nothing to distract yourself with, you stop and think about your life. And then anxiety will definitely appear."

“Silence is cruel,” Josie says in whisper.

As if the throat is stuffed with cotton.

Penelope looks at her so intently, like is was able to see something in Josie that she doesn't know about herself yet.

“Yes,” she says. “Exactly.”

And this is a magical moment: they only know each other for a couple of hours, but already truly understand each other. This sensation does not need words, it braids them with a thin, invisible cobweb. There is something almost intimate about it. An understanding is intimacy, and intimacy both enchants and scares. Josie loses her breath.

She recalls: once she stayed at home alone, and when the panic attack hit her with all the weight, she had nothing to distract herself with, no one to talk to. She huddled in a corner of the bathroom, sat for a long time in silence, falling deeper and deeper inside her own head. When the alarm became quite unbearable, she began sorting things out in the cupboard under the sink. She wanted to find a box with blades and throw it away. To protect herself, to save herself from temptation; but instead she found a clipper. Josie herself cut her hair, all that she could. Uneven, crooked, through tears.

She would like to tell Penelope about it. No, even more: she would like to write a song about it in order to come out with it in front of a crowd. To challenge both her own demons and other people's fears. Not trying to keep your emotions in a cage, but on the contrary, to pull them out.

By the edge of her mind, Josie notices that the van has stopped. Penelope, leaning on the steering wheel, carefully looks at her with an unreadable expression on the face. She seems very distant, unattainable, and yet Josie has the feeling that Penelope can read all her thoughts in some inexplicable way. She could ask Josie about something, say something insignificant, stupid, but she is silent, giving them both time.

Josie takes a few deep breaths, distracted. Bites her lip. Clicks a rubber band on the wrist. Penelope slightly frowns, watching, but says nothing.

A car with a huge speed passes by past the van, washing it with headlights. Josie flinches because of the loud sound.

“Hey,” says Penelope. “There's Taco Bell on the way.”

She is perfect, she intuitively reads Josie like a book and does everything right. It does not happen. It should not be. They don’t know each other at all, and they don’t even have time for it: in a couple of hours they will get to the city, Josie will leave the van, and will never meet with Penelope again. This is just the effect of consequential strangers. Josie is just terribly lonely, that's all.

With an effort of will, she drives away disturbing thoughts from herself and smiles: stretched, tired, sincere.

"I'm not in a hurry."

With no questions asked, Penelope starts the van again and turns to a side road.

*

It is empty in the parking lot, in front of the diner, the wind lazily chases small debris on the asphalt. You can hear how far cars rush on the highway towards the city. The neon sign above the entrance buzzes like a swarm of disturbed flies.

Josie and Penelope go to the van parked by the road and chew while going. It’s inconvenient for Penelope to drink because she has tacos in one hand and paper bags in the other, so Josie just occasionally holds the straw of her cola to the girl's lips.

“Tell me something else,” she asks through her mouth full.

Penelope thoughtfully licks a drop of sauce from her finger.

“Well... You would surely like MG. This guy believed that anxiety is an integral part of life, because it kind of reminds us that we are all mortal.”

“Sounds optimistic.”

“Yes, but on the other hand, it is anxiety that causes us to do something with our lives, look for meaning, everything. But you can't escape from it. It is necessary, like, to overcome it, to accept it, to stock up on courage. How was it...? Infinity cannot be reached otherwise than through despair.”

“Oh,” says Josie. “Perhaps I’ll cross out the catharsis from the to-do list for today.”

They laugh.

The faulty flashlight flashes at the very end of the parking lot, then illuminating the asphalt and cracked asphalt and empty urn, then plunging everything around into darkness. Josie shrinks from the cold wind and, sipping her soda, sneaks up. The night is clear, quiet, and far beyond the city the stars are visible in a full view; a scattering of white sparks penetrating the black surface of the sky through thousands, millions of light years of emptiness. Fingers freeze because of the ice in a glass of coke. Something shrinks and Josie itches inside, turning to Penelope.

She also looks at the night sky with a secret admiration, and Josie thinks that Penelope surely dreamed of becoming an astronaut as a child. If everything was different, she would have become a hero and would have flown far into space on a plush rocket to explore other galaxies. If they were all different, they would never have met. Josie would have remained at the party all alone and wandered through the maze of abandoned cars, catching her reflection on the dusty doors. Somewhere over millions of kilometers from Earth, Penelope would have sat in the cabin of a ship and watched the comets fiery tails fly past the window.

Cold wind blows. Josie finishes her drink and throws out the glass, almost missing the urn. Penelope doesn't budge.

“Two things awe me most,” she says quietly. “The starry sky above me and the moral law within me.”

Josie smiles, wrinkling her nose.

“Immanuel Kant?”

“Bingo,” Penelope reaches for a paper bag and hands a donut to Josie. “Your prize, miss.”

Josie gets onto the hood of the van and gets comfortable, leaning back against the windshield. Penelope takes a plaid from the backseat, pulls out a cigarette from the glove compartment and also lies down beside her, lighting it. Donut icing sugar sticks to the fingers and lips. Josie's lips are rough and bitten; a corner of her mouth begins to bleed again from the cold wind. When Josie takes a sip of cola (this time — from Penelope's glass), the skin tingles slightly, and for some reason she suddenly feels ashamed, embarrassed for herself.

Penelope brings her hand to the lips, making another puff, and Josie suddenly notices gore near the burr on her thumb. For some reason this small and insignificant detail calms her down.

“Do you know any constellations?” She asks, shaking off the remnants of powdered sugar from her shirt.

Penelope grins and stretches her hand forward.

“Big Dipper,” she traces the outlines of a star bucket through the air, as if trying to caress the sky with her fingertips.

“Even first graders know this, you fool,” Josie responds with disguised disappointment. “Anything else?”

“Nah,” Penelope throws the half-smoked cigarette into the urn and leans back relaxed, putting her hands under the head. “Once, of course, I dreamed of becoming an astronaut, but since then much water has flowed under the bridge. Mom always said that it's better for me to stop being up in the clouds and choose a career that would really make money.

“And you decided to study philosophy.”

“And I decided to study philosophy,” she smiles somewhere down, shortly, at the corner of her mouth. “Moral: do not destroy children's dreams.”

“... otherwise children's dreams will destroy you,” Josie adds jokingly.

Penelope nods gravely.

“Amen.”

There is silence.

The sky above their heads is so clear and bottomless that it seems that you can drown in it. The faulty flashlight still flashes, and flashes of light remind of light music from the party. The forest is surrounded by a monolithic parking lot. Penelope plays with a cigarette lighter: time after time she opens the lid and watches the wind make the flame dance. Josie takes a bitten lower lip into her mouth and sucks it lightly, like a lollipop, feeling the sweet taste: the remnants of powdered sugar.

She squints at the sky, and the whole world changes its shape. The stars disappear, the light goes out. The blackness hanging over her head seems like a huge stratum of earth, which presses down the coffin lid.

Thoughts of death are familiar to Josie. She furtively touches the forearm where her main secret is hidden under the fabric of the shirt. It touches the rubber band on the wrist. Penelope sighs relaxed next to her, another lighter click sounds. From the side of the diner, the wind brings the smell of something burning; it is sharp, saturated, pulling some strings inside that Josie cannot find. The van smells of gasoline, and Josie imagines how Penelope drops the lighter and it torches everything. The flame covers the car, scorches their hair, licks off the skin from them, and they both pull their burning hands to the silent sky, a bright orange flash against the dark forest.

Penelope touches her wrist, just a fleeting touch, nothing more, and Josie only notices how her heart beats loudly and hard.

“Sorry,” Penelope says, and her expression is open, deceitful. “I didn't mean to.”

The skin on the wrist is itchy, requiring new touches.

“It's okay,” Josie says, meeting Penelope's gaze.

She's scared. She feels uneasy, but this excitement is a viscous, pleasant one; she wants to tear it like a sore and sharpen like a knife. Is it a crime to fall in love a few hours after meeting?

“When are you coming back?” She suddenly asks, without looking away. “I mean, back to LA.”

A shadow passes across Penelope's face.

“Actually, this morning,” she says quietly, apologetically. “Most likely, I will take you to the city, and then immediately go to the airport.”

The distance from Mystic Falls to California is a million light years.

Josie internally freezes and forbids herself to feel pain. She forces herself to smile. She makes her voice not to tremble.

“Cool”, the word sounds easy, carefree, false. “If so, do we have to get back on the road?”

Penelope hesitates noticeably. Lighter cap clicks a few times. A faulty flashlight flashes.

“Actually, there's a lake around here,” she says carefully. “We went there with the whole family when I was little. I have a tradition: every time I come home, I look in there, throwing a coin. It doesn't take much time. Will you go with me?”

The effect of consequential strangers, reminds herself Josie. Now she and Penelope is a single whole, they are united by the road, and wherever Penelope goes, they will be on the way. Who is Josie to refuse to spend an extra hour next to a girl who will already be at the other end of the world in the afternoon?

“Sounds fun,” she says.

After a couple of minutes, the van rushes around the track again.

*

The empty place on the dashboard, where the radio tape recorder should be, is an eyesore to Josie's eyes. She can not get rid of the fact that Penelope flies home in the morning; the brain chases this thought in a circle, time after time, not wanting to let go. Anxiety slowly nibbles from the inside, forcing restlessly to fidget on the spot, wishing that the road would end as soon as possible and that it would never end at the same time.

“How did you get to that party? Someone invited you?” Penelope starts the conversation first again, and Josie is terribly grateful for the opportunity to distract.

“I came with my sister. Lizzie is my roommate, and she constantly hints that if I don’t go anywhere, I’ll turn into a hermit.”

“To be honest, I hate noisy gatherings. And you saved me. I was just standing in the parking lot in front of the house and pulling ourselves together to enter.”

And Josie suddenly hears more in these words, she understands all the unspoken subtext. This is not the first time. Penelope had come to parties before, stood by her van, smoked, could not bring herself to move. She represented a crowd raging inside a house, apartment or club, and listened to the pounding heart. Then she called whoever she came with and apologized, lied and made up excuses, justified herself, promised that she would surely appear at the party next time.

Penelope will certainly not be able to refuse the next invitation from someone for the same reason that Josie continues to listen to Lizzie. No one knows about the real courage more than people who find it difficult to do ordinary things. Every new day is like a battle doomed to fail.

Josie looks at the glove box in which lie the cigarettes, and thoughtfully pulls the rubber bands around her wrist. Pulls, but does not let go.

“I hate parties too,” she honestly admits. “But I hate my anxiety even more. And since this is my anxiety, sometimes I hate myself too, more than anything else.”

Her expression is calm, detached, dead, but inside everything tremblingly and disgustingly shakes. It is strange and scary for her to open up in front of another person. People may misunderstand her, condemn her, and start feeling sorry. But it is inconceivably warm that there is little chance that Penelope will still be able to understand this, and at least for a moment Josie will find an ally in the endless struggle with herself.

Penelope is silent for a long time, not answering, and Josie wants to move closer, cuddle up to the back of her head, to see, hear, or somehow feel the thoughts that spin in someone else's head.

“I know,” Penelope finally says, and her voice is very quiet, as if she tries to hold back the flow of words, rushing out. “Believe me. This feeling, when you want to do something, say something, but anxiety binds you and seals your mouth... it is disgusting. The worst thing is that it is impossible to get rid of anxiety. Someone had the idea that it arises out of doubt, and if this is true, one could, like, find peace by eliminating doubt. Who was that? It seems, Spinoza? I don't remember exactly. The bottom line is that it is still impossible. Such a mathematically exact model of the world cannot be built.”

“And what should we do then? In fact, Josie is interested in another question, and she nevertheless asks her, “How do you reassure yourself at such moments?”

The van make a sharp turn, and the headlights slide along the white strips of marking, along shining traffic signs, along road fencing. Josie feels that she sticks into a shoulder belt and suddenly realizes with a deafening excitement: for the first time in the last year, she did not forget to buckle up, getting into the car.

She and Penelope systematically fail to start a light, painless, unremarkable conversation on some abstract topic. They return to what is not customary to discuss again and again; it seems that once you started talking about something really important, it is difficult to stop. Josie is not sure if this can only be explained by the effect of consequential strangers. She is calm next to Penelope, she wants to open up.

This is unusual, and therefore the spine crawls with a pleasant shiver.

“It seems to me,” Penelope says cautiously, looking at the road. “That if you managed to survive something terrible and stayed alive, you gain the ability to understand the pain of other people. You become... susceptible, probably. And then you, sort of, can help someone else, because if you understand the pain, you can withstand it.”

“I... I never thought of it that way,” Josie confesses. The questions that crowded in her head, stucked together in a honeycomb, suddenly disappearing in an instant. “It really makes sense. The experienced pain... seems to give the courage not to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others.”

Penelope smiles fleetingly.

“Actually,” she says. “Kierkegaard and Camus and Sartre thought that courage is not the absence of despair, but rather the ability to do something in spite of it.”

Time seems to freeze. Josie looks up and meets Penelope's gaze. They do not need to talk in order to somehow convey their thoughts now. Both think about the same thing. Only a few hours have passed since they met, and they can already communicate outside of words.

And while sitting next to the girl somehow inexplicably conquered her, Josie increasingly becomes aware of why she chose music, why she slyly writes lyrics at night for future songs: to somehow structure her frightening thoughts and involuntary identification with someone else's pain.

What she considered all the life to be her main flaw, a small wormhole, in fact turned out to be a force pushing her forward to a new day.

Penelope turns away again, watching the road. Josie, trying to swallow a lump in the throat, looks with her glassy eyes because of a sleepless night somewhere ahead. Words, thousands of words swarm around in her head, and sometimes they automatically add up to sentences with rhyme and rhythm, but then they fall apart and slip away, as if teasing.

The silence reigning in the car no longer seems ominous.

Not quite aware of what she is doing, Josie again stretches the rubber bands on her wrist: they stick into the skin, more and more strongly, and then suddenly do not resist and tear, all three at once. Just an instant after that, Josie thoughtlessly looks at them, and then, without undue hesitation, throws them out of the window, somewhere in the direction of the escape from the sight of the road and the forest shrouded in darkness.

For the first time in a long time, she feels truly free.

*

Penelope slows down. On one of the corners, the asphalt road ends and a primer begins, similar to some wavy nightmare. The van moves slowly, and on another bump it jumps so hard, that Josie's teeth chatter.  
She casts a few reproachful glances in the direction of Penelope, and she indifferently shrugs her shoulders.

“Either that or go on foot.”

“I hope you have a good insurance,” Josie grumbles.

The windows in the van are ajar, and you can feel the smell of damp becoming more and more distinct, stronger and stronger. The wind increases. The road goes into the darkness pierced by the branches of trees, not a single car passes by.

After a few minutes, Penelope stops and turns off the engine.

“Here we are,” she says, and immediately leaves, slamming the door.

Josie has no choice but to follow her.

It is sand instead of the ground or asphalt under feet and air is impregnated with an icy lake smell, seaweed, water, early autumn. The wind penetrates through and blows the face with water splashes. A hill overgrown with yellow, dry grass, resting against a deserted beach is right behind the van. A wooden platform sparkling in the light of the moon goes into the dark interior of the lake, like a burning arrow in the night. Ink water heavily ripples.

“Run!” Suddenly excitedly offers Penelope. “Let's race!”

Josie defiantly rolls her eyes and sighs through a half-smile, but still sets off in pursuit of Penelope, tangling her feet in the dry, frozen grass. The stems break, fall off with fragile dust and stick to jeans.

Penelope's eyes glitter, and her cheeks had time to flush from the cold and running. When they get to top of a hill, she grabs Josie by the hand and pulls her down to the beach. Josie follows her easily, as if she is on an invisible leash, and they run, leaving behind a chain of footprints in the sand. The wind grabs their hair, climbs under their clothes with icy hands and knocks frosty tears from their eyes.

They run fast, hand in hand. At the very edge of the lake, wet sand in some places heavily spring underfoot, the night forest restlessly roars. In the dim light of the moon, everything around it looks faded like a washed-out rag, except for Penelope and her wavy hair. She runs close, and Josie hears her heavy breathing, trying to synchronize with her. A sparkling, a little childish delight comes to the throat, and there is a desire to run even faster, even further, to leave behind all the problems, turn the gaping void inside into action, drain the blood of anguish and fear.

Along with lagging breath, an indefatigable will to live in the chest: majestic, inspired, but recently full of cracks, through which dust is falling. Josie is overwhelmed with a wave of feeling, at the same time similar to euphoria and suffocation.

Penelope abruptly stops and pulls Josie close. She wraps her arms around her, keeps her in place, smiles and whispers, “Gotcha.”

There is nowhere else to run, there is only a forest and the darkness. The water softly splashes, hitting against a wooden platform.

Josie buries Penelope’s face in the shoulder and clings to the fabric of her hoodie. She is cold, sand has crowded into sneakers, the wind blows through a thin shirt. Josie knows that she may be crying tomorrow, left alone, shutting herself up in the room, before biting her lips with blood. Tomorrow is possible, but not now, please, only not now.

Penelope places her hand behind the head, pulling Josie even closer.

“It's all right,” she says. “Everything's okay.”

Josie sighs: ragged, harsh, it's more like a sob.

She recalls how, for the first time, she tried to do something people usually don't tell during first meetings. The bathroom was bright as if in heaven. There was no pain, at first there was no doubt. When Josie realized what she had done, she dropped the blade, pulled it out of the sink with a shaking hand, threw it into the trash can. Took a towel. Brought it out of the bedroom. White towel. She took gauze and ointment, sat on the edge of the bathroom, wiped her hand dry, somehow bandaged it. Tried not to cry. Fear shrapnel bones rose across the throat and prevented breathing, had to frantically swallow the air, licking dry lips. That day everything turned out fine, she didn’t have to call an ambulance, the blood soon stopped moving itself. For several weeks, until a bloody peel came off the wound, she wore long-sleeved shirts. Dad didn't notice anything. But on Josie's forearm, there was still a white band of a scar so that she would not dare to forget.

On that day, Josie wanted to write a farewell note, and even took out a paper and a pen, but could not find words that could fit. Later, after returning from the bathroom with a bandage on her arm, she sat down at the table and began to write the lyrics with the very same pen, on the same sheet. Josie decided: if she still falls through, if she gets tired and can no longer be strong, the songs will become her legacy, her farewell words. As a result, they have become something big.

Penelope weightlessly, without any hint of a sequel, kisses her on the temple, and in surprise Josie takes a step back, breaking the embrace. Penelope looks worried, and begins to apologize, but Josie does not allow her to do this, she is ahead of her. Perhaps in any other situation she would not be so decisive, but Penelope will fly away to the other end of the world very soon, and this spurs Josie, makes her take risks. She moves a step forward again and carefully, even gently, runs her hands across Penelope's back, scorches her chin with a hot breath, kisses her as if she doesn't wait for an answer. In response, Penelope obediently opens her mouth and sighs raggedly. A quiet, disturbing sound, dances down the spine.

Josie barely audible groans.

“Bite me.”

Penelope listens and gently grasps Josie's lower lip with the teeth. When she pulls away, Josie bites her with the same force, in the same place, and smiles with a trembling smile.

She interrupts something inside from the strength of all that she feels.

Josie and Penelope still stand in the wind for some time, listening to the rustle of trees and the splash of water. Josie knows that Penelope is already cold, but she does not offer to leave and waits for Josie to offer it. And she is grateful for this: it is important for her to enjoy this moment, to remember it well. She knows that later, perhaps, she will write a song about this evening. Something about the night forest, silence, a premonition of death and a desire to experience her own presence through the reflection in the eyes of another person.

Silence is different. With Penelope, it doesn't bring anxiety; it is comfortable and full of hidden messages and unspoken secrets. Josie wants to hide with it like a blanket, hide behind it, soak it up by herself.

Body shakes creeps from the cold and the proximity of others.  
Josie closes her eyes.

*  
Returning to the car, they hold hands, but do not talk. Along the way, Penelope throws a coin into the lake, and it sparkles like fish scales while flying. Dry grass sways in the wind, the moon flaunts in the dark sky, as if covered with an eyesore.

Only at the sight of the van Josie understands how cold and tired she is. She and Penelope act automatically: they take off their sneakers, shake the sand out of them, sit inside, buckle up. Josie unceremoniously puts the legs on the dashboard. She has funny socks with stripes and lilac threads are about to diverge on the big toe of her right leg. Dirty sneakers lie somewhere under the seat, and then Penelope is probably going to curse everything, cleaning the sand from the mat, but now she doesn’t say anything. She turns on the heat, takes a plaid from the back seat and throws it to Josie. She wraps in it, still trembling, and mumbles something grateful in reply.

She tells Penelope the campus address and turns to the window. Now, probably, it would be worthwhile for Josie to smile at Penelope, take her hand or do something else that is senselessly gentle, but some kind of internal barrier blocks these impulses, and therefore Josie just sits side by side. She feels an unknown shyness: where now, when this night adventure nears to its end, their intimacy with Penelope has become some kind of awkwardness.

They already know a lot about each other, but this is still not enough. A reminder flashes in her head that Penelope will be leaving soon. Very soon, Josie will be alone again.

The van drives away and turns for a dirt road.

Josie doesn't want to waste time sleeping. She rubs the bridge of the nose, trying to cheer up, but her eyes still begin to close, and she falls into slumber of the measured buzz of the motor, not reacting, even when the car shakes on potholes. She sees something vague, as if an invitation to this dream. The shadow of sounds, invented or real, rustles over the ear. Behind closed eyelids, a kaleidoscope of colorful spots rotates, which in no way wish to form a complete picture. Josie herself does not notice how she falls asleep.

Somewhere outside the windows of the van, the night inexorably comes to the end.

*

There will be a university campus and the necessary stop on the way soon. Josie pretends to be asleep, balancing somewhere between reality and sleep. Through the barely parted eyelids, she watches the soft light of road lanterns rushing past, behind the dark windows of other people's houses. Behind Penelope, whose face is fashioned out of benevolence and mild anxiety, whose face slowly grows dull when shadows fall on her.

There will be a necessary stop on the way soon. Josie needs to wake up. She thinks about it, but it seems to her that, opening the eyes, she will break something fragile, break some unspoken agreement, and prevent something important from happening. There are things that cannot be expressed in words. Early autumn falls a thin film of moisture on the windshield. Twilight, silence and absolute peace are like a rehearsal of non-existence, and for a moment Josie wants Penelope to sharply spin the steering wheel, put the car downhill, let it roll over once, then again, and again, until both passengers have only a mess of flesh and bones, covered with a glass crochet.

The van stops at the traffic lights. Penelope turns and straightens the fallen rug from Josie's shoulder. She sighs and sleepily rubs her cheek against the upholstery of the chair, trying to drown out some kind of nagging, strange, bright feeling that flares up inside.

There will be a necessary stop soon. Josie never opens her eyes.

*

She wakes up from the touch.

Outside the window, all is flooded with morning light: early, with a pinkish-peach shade. In some places, the van's glasses were fogging inside and, despite the heating turned on, it was a little cool in the cabin. Josie sleepily rubs her eyes with the back of the hand, trying to at least somehow arrange the thoughts that are confused after sleep. She desperately wants coffee. It was as if sand had been poured into the eyes, a sore neck was aching, but for the first time in a long time, Josie did not have nightmare; she slept soundly, dreamless, enjoying peace and darkness.

Sitting in the driver's seat, Penelope looks tired. She has dark shadows under the eyes, but for some reason she seems so... familiar and close, as if Josie wakes up next to her not for the first time.

“We're here,” Penelope says, not taking her eyes off Josie.

“Oh,” she says colorlessly, feeling her heart beat sharply down. “I see.”

They sit without moving. No one is in a hurry to get out of the car, no one is in a hurry to break the silence. Penelope looks at Josie as if she waits for something. And Josie does not know what it can be, or rather, no, she knows, but she is afraid to make a mistake. She is stupidly afraid to consider the situation wrong and ruin everything. She and Penelope are just strangers, and all their frank conversations, all the events of the previous night, happened only because both understood: in the morning they would part forever. Anonymity gives freedom and openness, but what if you put everything at risk for your own desires? What will happen then?

Josie feverishly tries to understand whether it will be a mistake to desire for something more. She nervously licks her lips and thinks about doing something crazy: ask Penelope for a phone number, invite her over for coffee; but the words are confused, stuck on her tongue, and the pause drags on.

Penelope sighs shortly, pulling back a little, and Josie realizes that the right moment was missed a second ago.

“It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

By the edge of her consciousness, Josie realizes that this is a catastrophe, and everything inside is ablaze, flashes with signal flares, but she is so scared, so upset by the inaction, that she cannot find the courage to take the decisive step. All feelings are numb. With the disobedient fingers, she unbuckles her seat belt.

“Bye,” at one glance, she silently asks Penelope to step in to stop her, but Penelope already looks somewhere under the feet. “Bon Voyage.”

“Thank you.”

Josie touches the handle, opens the door and is about to go out. She suddenly feels some movement behind her back, feels a touch even before it occurs. And it happens.

Penelope grabs her by the shoulder, and she looks like she herself does not believe that she allowed herself to do it.

“Wait”, she pauses and hesitates, silents, looks anywhere, but not at Josie. On her face, emotions change so quickly and so often that it is impossible to catch a single one. “I...” She sighs heavily and lets go of someone else’s shoulder, clenching her fingers into a fist. “Take care of yourself.”

Hope, flashed in Josie's chest, dies, plunging everything into the usual, cold darkness. She is confused, lonely and broken, and does not know what to do next, and therefore she will probably do stupid things, sharp things, sharp as the blade of her knife (which she will use more than once on her because she deserves it and deserves it).

This is a disaster, but Josie forbids herself to feel pain. She forces herself to smile.

She quickly puts on sneakers and gets out of the van, slamming the door. This time Penelope does not try to stop her. Josie leaves the parking lot quickly, without turning around, not giving herself time to change mind. Nobody shouts after her, no one tries to catch her. Early morning silently and lifelessly watches the situation from the outside.

Fatigue, frustration and emptiness clash together, and Josie balances on this crest, feeling that she will fall soon. But she takes a step forward, then another step. First she needs to get home. So far, she can not fall.

*

 

She stands on the threshold, leaning against the door jamb, and looks at her empty room. Josie almost does not experience internal thrill. All the same. The habitual silence presses on the ears, and for a moment it seems to her that she has not left anywhere and never returned.

In the corner, on the table by the bed, the clock chirps, orange light spreads across the square of the window. Disassembled bed looks uncomfortable and repulsive, especially with old faded sheets and too many pillowcases on the pillows. Things scattered on the floor as if they signify taken boundaries. Lately, Josie’s depression took the upper hand over her, and he could barely force herself to get out of bed, not to mention cleaning. The half of the room belonging to Lizzie is filled up with cameras, flash drives, old film cameras and some other equipment, the purpose of which can only be guessed. At the window the coils of wires and adapters gather dust. Notebooks are raised on the table: with sheets torn out in a fit of irritation, sloppily written with melodies interspersed with lyrics.

There is nothing more to look at, you can hardly find something interesting. But Josie stands and observes how the light changes outside the window, waiting for the morning and all that it brings with it. With a familiar gesture, she touches the wrist and surprises for a moment that there are no more rubber bands there. Hands themselves clenched into fists.

Rubber bands torn. The scars have long been stretched to thin threads. She's strong. She has already experienced a lot. She is almost a whole person.

Here, in the walls of her room, in a familiar and safe environment, she does not feel anxiety. In theory, this should be encouraging and even pleasing, but Josie suddenly becomes bored. There will be no other vans anymore, in which she can fall asleep and wake up. No thrills, no girls with wavy hair. Solid lonely days, a soft flow of time, a soft silence in the head, which no one will break with their cry for help. All of this knocks out of the rut even more.

Josie feels tired and exhausted, but it's not just that. She is covered with hot, passionate anger when she thinks about all the reasons why Penelope cannot hold her hand right now, be near her, feel her hot breath and rapid pulse.

The silence of the corridor, clinking, breaks on someone's quick steps. Josie shudders, as if emerging from a trance, and turns around. Lizzie notices her almost at the same moment and changes the face: she looks agitated, overjoyed, a little bit ashamed.

“Josie!” She smiles and quickens her pace. “There you are! Dude, I was so worried! I did not hear your calls because of the music, I called you a million times later, but you didn’t pick up the phone. And you were not at the party. Where have you gone? I was terribly worried, no joke.”

Lizzie comes closer and encouragingly puts her hand on Josie's shoulder. She smiles back sincerely, effortlessly. Josie and Lizzie haven’t seen each other for only a few hours, but it seems like a whole lifetime has passed during this time.

“May I ask you a favor?” Josie suddenly asks.

It is exciting for her to even think about exactly what she is about to decide. She feels a familiar, bitter fear, but at the same time, an unprecedented surge of inspiration, which usually happens only when the words for new songs are written by themselves, the music itself begins to sound in the head.

Lizzie blinks in surprise, but almost does not hesitate with the answer.

“Of course. What's the matter?”

“Can you get me to the airport?” The throat is compressed because of anticipation and joy. Josie is almost in awe of her own courage. “But fast. We need to catch the next flight to Los Angeles.”

Another reason Josie loves Lizzie so much: she doesn’t ask too many questions.

“I have no idea when the next flight is,” she says excitedly. “But we can figure it out on the way.”

Josie grabs her arm and says:

“Let's go.”

*

It's the weekend, and the waiting room is full of people: someone meets friends and relatives, someone escorts them, someone is going to fly off on a trip or return home. Josie glances through the crowd, along a string of unfamiliar faces, and feels a creeping panic attack. She can't find Penelope. Boarding call for flight to Los Angeles begins in ten minutes.

You can hear the hysterical roar of engines from the side of the runway. Planes take off and land, people scurrying with suitcases, bags and bouquets of flowers past the frozen Josie. Crying scared children. Announcements on the speakerphone sound illegible, and it seems that the gentle, cold-polite female voice prophesies something in a made-up language. The lines on the board now and then replace each other. Everybody is in a hurry.

Some person accidentally touches Josie’s hand, and she abruptly turns back. Breathing is stuck in the throat, as if the lungs are pressed down with a stone. Fear is persistently scratched under the ribs. There are too many people around, too little space to feel safe.

And for a moment, Josie is going to give up. She wants to lower her head, go to the parking lot and tell Lizzie that it's time to go home. But something prevents her from doing that. Some kind of vague premonition keeps her in place, directs her gaze to the bulletin board and the pointer hanging on the wall. Josie looks at the scattering icons and at first does not understand why intuition so persistently pushes her forward, but then the idea itself comes to mind, and everything seems to light up.

She darts off and runs off at full speed, bumping into people, sliding her shoes through the smooth tile. People grumble after her, because not everyone manages to dodge her path at the last moment. Someone accidentally touches her several times: by the arm, by the back, by the forearm. But Josie no longer pays attention to it.

The smoking room greets her with the suffocating smell of cigarettes and clouds of smoke: so thick that it seems you can cut it with a knife. The sun's rays are confused in this smoke, leaving a blurry reflection on the dirty floor. Urns are choked with cigarette butts.

Some girl smokes, leaning against the wall. She has an open, smirking face, tenacious gaze. Her hoodie is emblazoned with the logo of a weird raven, which Josie had never seen before. Wavy hair.

The brief moment of recognition acts as a defibrillator, and it drives the heart crazy because of a jubilation. Josie takes breath with stealth and goes forward.

“Hey,” she says, biting her lip because of an old habit excitedly. “Hello.”

Penelope turns around.


End file.
